


everything i've gotta tell you

by thelittlebirdthattoldyou



Series: Mr. & Mr. Ushiwaka [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Mr. & Mrs. Smith Fusion, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Oikawa Tooru, Pining, Secret Identity, uhh more like embittered and weary married couple to renewed lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlebirdthattoldyou/pseuds/thelittlebirdthattoldyou
Summary: “Can’t you move the hit earlier?”Iwaizumi snorts. “You can’t rearrange our entire schedule just for shits and giggles. Be there at nine-seventeen. Not a second earlier.”“You guys never let me have any fun.”“The last time you ‘had fun,’ you blew up that train station in Belgium.”“It was abandoned!” Oikawa protests.For two years, Oikawa has been trapped in a loveless marriage to Ushijima Wakatoshi. The only thing that brings him joy anymore is his secret work as an assassin, where he competes for kills with a rival known only as the Ace.But when Ace's identity is revealed and his double lives threaten to collide, Oikawa has to reevaluate everything he thought he knew about his husband.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Series: Mr. & Mr. Ushiwaka [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975735
Comments: 73
Kudos: 304





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ushioi week day 5: **crime/villain au** | ~~long distance relationship~~ | ~~timeskip~~
> 
> disclaimer: i know nothing about assassins, assassination attempts, or guns.
> 
> title: “making love out of nothing at all” by air supply (from the soundtrack for mr & mrs smith (2005))

Oikawa is conflicted. His neighbors are throwing a dinner party in honor of Ushijima’s recent promotion at work. The new position means Ushijima will be permanently based in Japan; he won’t have to travel out of the country on business for weeks at a time. So on one hand, the promotion might be an opportunity for them to rekindle their floundering marriage. But on the other, Oikawa isn’t sure there’s anything left for them to salvage.

And if Ushijima doesn’t have to be abroad so much, they’ll have to keep up appearances more often. Which means Oikawa will be dragged to more of these infernal gatherings, where he’s forced to make nice with the neighbors and coo over babies and pretend he doesn’t want to spoon out his own eyeballs.

Okay, not really. But that fate is growing more and more tempting by the second as he listens to the other guests drone on around him. He stabs at a spear of asparagus with particular ferocity. The metal fork scrapes against the plate with an awful screech. Beside him, Sugawara winces.

He’s acting like a child. Usually he’s in his element when it comes to events like these. Usually, he can play the consummate, charismatic guest.

But tonight, he doesn’t want to pretend anymore. There’s no point to any of this. No offense to Sawamura and Sugawara, who he’s sure are nice people, but he would rather never have to sit down at their perfectly polished table and eat perfectly cooked steak off their perfectly matching plates ever again. They’re so… domestic, and it’s boring. It’s not something Oikawa has ever wanted for himself.

Oikawa’s eyes drift from the plate up to Ushijima’s face, across the table. It isn’t much more interesting to look at. He’s as stoic as usual, expression betraying no emotion as he nods along to whatever Sawamura is talking about now. Maybe something about stock prices in Europe.

To be honest, Oikawa hardly remembers what his husband actually does for a living. All he knows that it’s some cushy, low-effort desk job on the stock market with a pretentious title.

_Pot, kettle,_ Oikawa thinks. Maybe he’s been domesticized, too.

He hates it. He’s sure he must have loved Ushijima once, maybe back at the beginning of their relationship when everything was new and interesting. They seemed so right for each other at the time, polar opposites who could never back down from a challenge. There was once a spark there, Oikawa remembers, that was less a spark and more of a raging wildfire.

_It wasn’t supposed to be like this,_ he thinks with a small sigh.

These days, the most emotion he can muster when he thinks about Ushijima is stale boredom and a vague sort of annoyance. Even outright hatred would be better than this. At least then they might still be having sex.

“... Oikawa?”

He blinks and finds himself back in the present, Sugawara’s wide brown eyes, concerned and a little irritated, trained on him. Quickly, he pastes on a sickly-sweet smile, so fake it makes his teeth hurt. “Sorry, Refreshing-kun,” he says. It’s funny, because nothing about the oppressive dining room is at all _refreshing._ “I would ask what you were talking about, but that would imply that I actually want to be a part of this conversation.”

“Tooru,” Ushijima says lowly from across the table. A warning.

Well, fuck him and his warnings. Oikawa doesn’t need to be treated like some dog that Ushijima can just order to heel.

“I’m going to get some air,” Oikawa says, pushing his chair back from the table and standing. Around him, the other couples who live on the block—their hosts, Sawamura and Sugawara, Kiyoko and Tanaka, Yamaguchi and Yachi, and a few others he’s forgotten the names of despite having lived close to for years—pause in their conversations about the weather or what-the-fucking-ever to stare at him. “It’s getting kind of stuffy in here, what with all the hot air, don’t you think?” Oikawa asks innocently, ignoring the way Ushijima’s disapproving eyes follow him out of the room.

He walks out to the entrance hall and slips his loafers back on, then heads out onto the porch, closing the door with a quiet click behind him. Then he just keeps walking, crosses the street, and heads straight home.

One perk of having separate bedrooms is that he doesn’t have to be as careful about where he hides his tech. Ushijima never goes into his room, and vice versa. So he cracks open the small metal safe in his closet and takes out a glossy black burner phone. The number changes every few days, never on a set schedule, and he doesn’t know if Iwaizumi is expecting a call, but his fingers fly over the keys anyway.

Oikawa collapses on his back on the bed and presses the phone to his ear, closing his eyes. He lets out a low exhale as he waits for the call to go through.

A click. “Oikawa. You’re not needed until later tonight.”

“Good to hear from you, too, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. “Can’t you move the hit earlier?” He already has the physical profile of his target memorized; cropped black hair, balding, downturned brown eyes with heavy lids, jowls, just over five feet tall, overweight.

Iwaizumi snorts. “You can’t rearrange our entire schedule just for shits and giggles. Be there at nine-seventeen. Not a second earlier.”

“You guys never let me have any fun.”

“The last time you ‘had fun,’ you blew up that train station in Belgium.”

“It was abandoned!” Oikawa protests. His target had been a wealthy businessman, on the run and hiding out in the station after multiple instances of insurance fraud. And the TnT was right there, and Oikawa had felt like it was a good opportunity to experiment. No one had been hurt. Well, except the businessman.

“Yeah, yeah.” A brief, staticky silence. “Is this about Ushiwaka again?”

Oikawa rolls over onto his stomach. “Aww, Iwa-chan,” he coos into the encrypted line, “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t, dumbass. Unless it interferes with your job.”

Oikawa laughs. Iwaizumi can lie all he wants, but he’s pretty sure the handler would be at least a little sad if he ended up dying on a mission one of these days. Probably.

“We’re—everything’s the same as usual,” Oikawa says with a sigh.

“Are you still seeing that marriage counselor? What was his name—Kuroo?”

“Yeah, right. I don’t think there’s any fixing this, Iwa-chan. I’ll just wait until he gets tired of lying to himself and decides to divorce me after all.” He pauses. “Also, I think that counselor was PSIA.”

“Not this again. Not everyone is a government agent, Shittykawa.”

“Yeah, but he was. I’m sure of it.”

“Whatever. Just be on site when it’s time, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Oikawa says. The phone beeps, which mean Iwaizumi has hung up, and he sighs, tossing the phone away. It lands with a soft thud on the carpet somewhere.

Then he thinks better of it and climbs off the bed to grab it again and put it away in its proper, hidden place in the closet. Heaven forbid that today is the day Ushijima decides to take him to bed, only to find mysterious spy gadgets strewn across the floor.

He settles on the bed and picks at the eight hundred thread count sheets because there’s nothing better for him to do until it’s time for the hit. He doesn’t have any work left for his day job because his day job is just a front for Aoba Johsai’s shadier dealings. On paper, he’s a business consultant for King Consulting. In practice, he doesn’t even know what the fuck a business consultant _does._

So he waits with bated breath as Ushijima opens and closes the front door. There comes the sound of shoes being set in their proper place on the rack in the genkan. Those are footsteps, now, padding up the steps and down the hallway where both their rooms are located. They stop for a second in front of his door, and Oikawa bites his lip, but then Ushijima seems to catch himself. He continues to his own bedroom at the end of the hall without a second thought.

It’s definitely not disappointment welling in Oikawa’s chest. It’s—relief. Yeah.

Scowling, Oikawa starts to get ready for the night. He puts on his best suit, the dark blue one that clings to the lean curves of his body and tapers at the waist, and he makes sure to pop one more shirt button open than is socially acceptable. He styles his hair in soft waves. He even puts on a spritz of the expensive cologne Ushijima bought him for Christmas a few months ago, which he’s never used until now. It’s masculine and piney, not exactly what he would pick out for himself, but then again, he’s not looking good for himself tonight.

_About time I showed Ushiwaka what he’s missing out on,_ Oikawa thinks with a sneer.

He keeps his steps light as he walks down the hall. It’s practically second nature now to walk as silently as he can, to bleed into the shadows of a room.

When he opens the door, his husband has already changed into his pajamas—a white t-shirt and boxers—and he’s sitting upright on the bed thumbing through a magazine. His familiar silver watch, the first present Oikawa ever gave him, rests on the nightstand. He gives no indication that he even registers Oikawa’s presence. It’s infuriating.

“Well?” Oikawa demands. He spins around for good measure. “Aren’t you going to compliment me, Ushiwaka?”

“Ah, Tooru.” Ushijima glances up. “Your behavior at dinner tonight left much to be desired.”

Oikawa scowls. What’s it going to take to get the guy to show a little human emotion once in awhile? Even the way he says _Tooru_ sounds robotic these days, his voice devoid of any of the affection and familiarity that should be present.

“Are you going to be telling me how to act from now on, then?” Oikawa asks. “Dress me up and order me around like I’m some sort of doll?” It hurts more than he expected. When they first met, they’d been equals. Rivals. Now, Oikawa feels like Ushijima is always looking down on him. Nothing he does is ever enough, so maybe that’s why he’s stopped trying.

“Of course not,” Ushijima says. “But I would have liked for you to be supportive of my career.”

Oikawa slumps, shaking his head. He doesn’t want to argue anymore. Their fights these days aren’t lively or invigorating like they used to be. They’re just draining.

“Whatever. I’m heading out. Don’t miss me too much.”

Pausing only to grab his briefcase on the way, Oikawa leaves without another word. He wonders if Ushijima thinks he’s cheating. He wonders if Ushijima would even care if he was.

Outside on the curb, there’s a car waiting to take him from his and Ushijima’s big house in the suburbs to a lavish hotel in the heart of Tokyo. Tonight, there’s a charity gala being thrown by one of the most powerful families in Japan. It’s one of their sons that he’s after, a man by the name of Nakamura Eiichi. Apparently he’s been suspected of embezzling funds from the family company. Oikawa doesn’t know who called for the hit, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was a blood relative. Money has a nasty habit of making people turn on each other.

The mission is too delicate for Oikawa to take the target out himself, so he’s just the distraction for tonight. According to their sources, Oikawa is exactly his type: tall and leggy and brunet.

Watari drives and briefs him on the mission on the way there. Oikawa knows all of it already—he’s a professional, after all—but it’s a good refresher. And then Watari pulls the car into park and fits Oikawa with all the equipment he needs for the night: a lightweight, durable bulletproof vest under his shirt and a barely-there comm in his ear. There’s a pistol tucked into his suit jacket and a knife strapped to his thigh just in case things get out of control.

“Thanks, Watacchi,” Oikawa says. Watari, their tech guy, always doubles as the driver for sensitive missions like these.

With one last quick checkup in the side mirror, Oikawa opens the car door and steps out into the night.

His eyes zero in on Nakamura as soon as he enters the ballroom, but he stops himself from walking over there immediately. It has to be organic. So he grabs a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and immerses himself in the crowd, laughing and mingling and making sure to reveal nothing true about himself.

This is the stuff Oikawa lives for. It’s the same fake, flirtatious bullshit he puts on for his neighbors, but this time there’s that undercurrent of danger that never fails to get his blood pumping. There’s always the chance that he’ll be found out, that something will go wrong. He likes the adrenalin rush of it, likes that he has someone’s life in his hands and that the man himself doesn’t even know.

Oikawa has been working his way closer to Nakamura’s side of the room, and it’s not long before he finds himself face to face with the target. He offers him a dazzling smile, and the poor guy falls right into his trap.

Nakamura leers at Oikawa, eyes dragging up and down his body. He’s not subtle. There’s a greedy look in his eyes while he takes Oikawa in; this is the type of man who’s never been told “no” in his life, who’s accustomed to getting everything he wants.

It’s a shame Oikawa doesn’t get to deal the killing blow himself.

They exchange pleasantries. Oikawa pretends to be surprised and impressed at all the right times, as if the target is revealing new information and not things he already learned from the background check Kunimi did.

The earpiece he’s wearing, hidden by a strategic lock of hair, crackles to life.

“Positions,” Iwaizumi says.

Oikawa tosses his head in a way that’s intended to be alluring while also signalling that he’s heard. “It’s getting hard to talk in here,” he simpers. He’s laying it on a little thick, but the target is too awestruck to care. “How about we get a little privacy?”

Nakamura agrees, far too eager, and Oikawa takes his hand and leads him out to the nearly deserted balcony. A few other couples stand around, flirting quietly. They’ll serve as witnesses if Oikawa happens to be detained as a suspect for the murder. Though if everything goes right, he should be able to sneak away before anyone notices.

They find a spot along the railing, overlooking the bright neon of the city. Out of the corner of his eye, Oikawa picks out the neighboring building atop which a sniper should be situated. He lets himself lean in slightly closer as Nakamura rambles about how many sports cars he owns, doesn’t miss the way Nakamura’s eyes darken at the increase in proximity.

He trusts Seijoh’s snipers to take steady aim. As long as they both stay still, the shot shouldn’t go anywhere near him.

Unless, for some godforsaken reason, Iwaizumi has decided to send Kyoutani out tonight. In that case, Kyouken-chan would probably fire at him right after killing Nakamura, just out of spite.

A tiny dot of red light appears on Nakamura’s forehead, and then Iwaizumi is back in his ear. He counts down— _three, two, one_ —and then—

The light flickers and disappears.

Nothing happens.

It’s only thanks to years of careful practice that Oikawa prevents his plastic smile from slipping away. He’s a professional, but this is unheard of. Their snipers just don’t miss cues. They’re too well-trained for that.

“Let me take you out for a drive sometime,” Nakamura says, voice low and intimate. He leans in, obviously intending to kiss Oikawa, and he smells like cigar smoke and too much cologne.

Oikawa is just unnerved enough that he forgets his mission and jerks back, stumbling out of the guy’s reach. And it’s a good thing he does, because seconds later, Nakamura’s head explodes.

Oikawa doesn’t have to fake his surprise; he _is_ surprised, and he makes a mental note to demand answers from Iwaizumi later. But he still has a job to do, so he recovers quickly and opens his mouth to scream.

“Help! Help, Nakamura—he just—oh my god!”

That draws attention. People rush over, crowding around the body on the floor. First it’s the other couples, and then people start pouring out from inside the ballroom upon hearing the commotion. In the midst of the chaos, Oikawa slips unnoticed through the crowd. He clings to walls of the room, steps quick and silent as he makes his way out of the hotel and back into the car.

“What was that?” he hisses into his earpiece, barely sparing a second to say hello to Watari. “I fucking told you Kyoutani’s not ready—”

“Kyoutani wasn’t there tonight,” Iwaizumi says. “It was Matsukawa.”

“Mattsun?” Oikawa is stunned. Impossible. Matsukawa is one of the best they have. The most experienced. There’s no way he would make such an novice mistake.

“There was some… interference,” Iwaizumi says. “I sent Hanamaki to check on him—looks like someone got up to the roof and knocked him out. Signs of a struggle. They’re headed back to base now.”

“So the target—”

“Best guess is a rival agency got him. No one else would be stupid enough. Fuck!”

Oikawa can sympathize. The very idea that some other organization got their guy—it has him grinding his teeth.

“I’m gathering all the intel I can right now,” Iwaizumi says after a pause, voice calmer now. “I’m calling an emergency meeting in the morning—for now, fill out the report with everything you remember and have Watari forward it to me.”

“Of course,” Oikawa says, and the call disconnects. He takes the comm out and snaps it in half, handing it over to Watari for proper disposal later. They spend the rest of the ride in near-silence, save for the furious scratch of pen on paper as Oikawa does his best to detail the night’s events.

There’s not much—hopefully Matsukawa or Hanamaki will be of more help—but he leaves it with Watari anyway. They get back home, and Oikawa gets out and watches the black car peel away from the curb, melting away into the darkness.

It’s late when he enters the house. Nearing midnight, according to the glaring red numbers of the oven clock. The halls are dark and empty. That in and of itself isn’t so unusual, but there’s no sign of life at all. Ushijima must have gone out as well.

Maybe _he’s_ the one having an affair. Oikawa almost laughs. That would be just what he needs after the rest of the shitshow that’s been this day.

He goes to sleep alone. As usual.

* * *

King Consulting may be nothing more than a front for Seijoh, but Oikawa will be damned if it isn’t an excellent front. The building looks perfectly innocuous from the outside: a five-story steel building sandwiched between two skyscrapers in Tokyo’s central business district. Those five floors are staffed with enough real consultants to make the company appear legitimate and to generate a side income to supplement the assassin stuff. But it’s in the basement that all the real work is done.

Oikawa knows of at least a dozen secure Seijoh locations inside the country and a few outside it; the specialists who make up their permanent staff are always prepared to move or go underground on a moment’s notice. The King Consulting building just happens to be the most centralized hub, so most of their meetings are held there for convenience. And Oikawa is late.

When he arrives, the other primary operatives are waiting for him at the conference table. Matsukawa is in a wheelchair. According to Yahaba’s scan last night, he’d broken two ribs and a femur and suffered internal and external bruising from the attack. His face is still swollen purple, and Oikawa’s blood boils at the sight.

He grits his teeth and takes his seat at the end of the table without a sound. Matsukawa wouldn’t want him to bring it up, wouldn’t want any sort of pity, so he doesn’t bother. “What’s the word, boss?” he asks Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “When will you learn to show up on time?” he asks. But it looks like he’s got more pressing matters on his mind, because he leaves the scolding at that. “Now that everyone’s here, we can finally start. You’ve all been briefed on last night’s mission, so I won’t waste time with the details. I had Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and Oikawa file incident reports. We’ve analyzed all the information we could get from them, and—Kunimi?” he prompts.

Their primary hacker and researcher nods, standing. His posture is more alert than usual, which isn’t saying much. He’s still slouched, hands stuffed in his pockets, as if he could fall asleep on his feet. “We can’t be completely sure, but from the evidence, it looks like this is someone who specializes in blunt force trauma. They emphasize power over precision, and they’re bold enough to stake out another agency’s hit. Based on that M.O., our best bet is that it was Shiratorizawa.”

Oikawa sucks in a breath and hisses it out through his teeth. Shiratorizawa. A few years ago, that name was the bane of his existence. He and one of their assassins, codenamed Ace, had been competing kill for kill, sabotaging each other left and right. Ace had been known for his strength and his signature left-handed weapons handling, and he’d been a challenge like no other Oikawa has faced in the field to date. Their kill count was tied at ninety-two each when the other agent seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. Kunimi managed to access their databases and learn that Ace was reassigned to overseas hits, but he couldn’t crack the specific mission files.

Oikawa won’t admit it out loud, but he misses Ace. He misses the thrill of the chase, the mad race to get to your target before the other person. The novelty of having someone who’s your equal in every way, followed by the rush of being able to come out on top.

It almost reminds him of—

Well. He was going to say it reminded him of Ushijima. Their first dates had been a series of competitions: volleyball, rock climbing, and, on one memorable occasion, skydiving. But those days are long gone, so Oikawa ignores it.

Kunimi clears his throat. “Additionally, from what Matsukawa-san saw of the assailant,” he says in his trademark bored monotone, “he fits the physical profile of Shiratorizawa’s agent premier.”

Oikawa clenches his fists on the desk. So it is Ace, returned from wherever it is he’s been hiding for the past two years.

Among the major Tokyo assassin agencies—Aoba Johsai, Shiratorizawa, and Fukurodani the most notable among them—the title of premier is earned through years of dedication to the craft. Oikawa wears Seijoh’s number one tattooed behind his ear, and his rival has a similar one for Shiratorizawa.

“We’re gonna have to keep our eyes open from now on,” Iwaizumi says, signaling for Kunimi to return to his seat. “There’s no guarantee that they won’t try something like this again now that their top agent is back in the game.”

“Let him come,” Oikawa says. He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “I can take him.”

“And you,” Iwaizumi says, scowling at him, “are not going to do anything that could get you killed, dumbass. We can’t afford to lose our premier.”

Oikawa sighs, but he knows Iwaizumi is just doing his job. Looking out for the best interests of the entire agency. “Yeah, fine, Iwa-chan.”

“Are we going to have to reassign our agents?” Kindaichi asks from the back of the room. He was recruited a few months ago, but the rest of them quickly realized that he got too squeamish in the field, so he’s since become their paperwork guy.

Iwaizumi pauses to consider that, and Oikawa holds his breath. As much as Ushijima makes him want to tear his hair out, as depressing as it is to live like a ghost in your own house, he doesn’t want to relocate. Maybe it’s the nostalgia of what he once had here. Maybe he’s just getting soft with every year he ages. But either way, when Iwaizumi shakes his head, he lets out a quiet breath of relief.

Only Yahaba, seated beside him on the right, seems to notice. He shoots Oikawa a questioning look, which Oikawa shrugs off easily.

“Dismissed,” Iwaizumi says, after outlining a few more precautions for all of them to take in the coming weeks. “Oikawa, with me.”

“Sure thing,” Oikawa says.

After everyone has left, Iwaizumi pulls out a file from one of the many locked compartments under the table. “Here,” he says, sliding it over. “Your latest assignment.”

“Weren’t you just telling me not to do anything stupid?”

“You’ll get backup,” Iwaizumi informs him, “and your orders are to remove yourself from the situation immediately if things get volatile. The hit isn’t your priority here. Kunimi’s leaked the coordinates to Shiratorizawa. We need to see if you can bait them into showing up.”

“And then what?” Oikawa asks with a frown. “Just run away?”

“You’re not going to fight him. Just get close enough to confirm that he’s the same guy.”

“Fine,” Oikawa says. “Since you’re asking so nicely.” He narrows his eyes, flashing a sharp grin. “But one day, I’m going to be the one to take him down.”

“Sure,” Iwaizumi says. “If you listen to directions this one time, I’ll stroke your ego as much as you want later.”

Oikawa snatches the file off the table and hops to his feet. “Deal! I’m holding you to that, Iwa-chan!”

He doesn’t look at the documents inside until he’s safe in his office on the fifth floor. It’s paneled with floor-to-ceiling glass windows that provide him with an excellent view of the bustling streets outside. He hardly ever uses it, but never let it be said that being Seijoh’s premier doesn’t come with benefits.

Once he’s enthroned comfortably on his cushioned rolling chair, Oikawa opens the file and flicks through the sheafs of paper inside. Name, age, weight, height, and physical description of the intended victim, coupled with a few photos. Nothing out of the ordinary. Near the end of the stack, though, he comes across a picture of the roof scene from last night. Hanamaki must have taken it.

Matsukawa is sprawled out in a pool of blood, unconscious, by the railing. His hand dangles dangerously over the edge of the roof. His equipment lies in scattered disarray around him. There are signs of a struggle, obviously one-sided considering Matsukawa was taken by surprise. By the looks of it, Ace has sharpened his skills over the past few years. He’s still about as subtle as a train wreck, but it’s obvious that he’s good at what he does.

Jesus. The bastard is lucky Matsukawa survived, because if he hadn’t—

Oikawa takes a deep breath to calm himself down.

He has the day to himself; Ushijima isn’t expecting him home until five, when he usually returns. So he pulls his laptop out of his briefcase and passes time collecting all the information he can find on Ace’s foreign ventures.

There’s little to be found, and what he does manage to uncover is difficult to verify. He comes across a few notable deaths that might be traceable to Shiratorizawa, but most of it is wrapped up in conspiracy theories and scandals and government cover-ups. He can’t even pinpoint where Ace was at any given time in the past two years, much less get ahold of the solid leads he wants. What he can tell, though, is that working overseas hits has sharpened Ace’s skills significantly. It’s a far deadlier game this time around.

Oikawa can’t wait to win.

* * *

The hit is scheduled for the following night. Oikawa finds it hard to focus on anything else, but he’s careful not to let it show. He greets his husband with a kiss on the cheek as soon as he gets home. Ushijima tolerates it with little more than a slight raise of the eyebrow. Like Oikawa, he works a typical nine-to-five job, except his has to do with stocks. It bores Oikawa to think about, so he’s never asked for the details. All he knows is that it pays well and, until recently, that it meant a lot of time out of the country.

Oikawa even makes the trek back to their neighbors’ house with a loaf of homemade bread as an apology gift. Ushijima bakes it—Oikawa would rather relive that nightmarish Beijing mission from two years ago than attempt to cook—but it’s the thought that counts.

Sugawara accepts his apology with a bright, sharp smile and a scathing lecture that leaves Oikawa feeling like a chastised child. Maybe he underestimated the man’s viciousness. Oikawa makes a note to keep an eye on him in the future.

The next morning, Oikawa sets his alarm for the crack of dawn. He dresses quietly, Ushijima still asleep in the next room, and makes it to work as the city is starting to wake up. He has to check in with Yahaba, Watari, and Kunimi before tonight. Two days is barely enough time to prepare for a normal assignment, and this one is more important than most.

The target is a mid-sized drug kingpin whose conducts his trade in the outskirts of the city. Oikawa can’t be sure, but he assumes they were hired by one of his rivals to solve a territory dispute of some sort.

Oikawa drives himself to the proper coordinates and parks the car a few blocks awa, close enough to sprint to but far enough to be inconspicuous, and pauses to equip himself with his gear for the night. He’s in dark colors, with a black beanie and full-face mask. Bulky night vision goggles are layered on top of it.

He exits the vehicle as quietly as he can. The streets are deserted. This is a sketchy part of town, and no one wants to risk being around for anything that could land them in tomorrow morning’s paper. Still, Oikawa stays on his guard; he sticks to the shadows as he makes his way to the address.

It’s a large warehouse, lying abandoned. Oikawa isn’t the biggest fan of warehouses. There’s always too much space to hide in them once all the contents have been taken out. But it’s dark, and he’s trained for this, so he steels himself for anything and ducks through the doors.

The interior is just as he’d assumed it would be: gray and dirty and empty. Loose wires and leftover stacks of cardboard boxes, stained with traces of water damage, clutter the corners. What little light there is streams down from the small windows placed high up on each wall.

His target is stupid enough to be standing in the middle of the warehouse, conversing in hushed tones with another man in an all-black suit. They’re making a deal here where anyone could walk in and see them. How amateur.

Quick as a flash, Oikawa darts behind a nearby support beam. He eyes the men in the center for a few seconds to make sure that he’s got his mark. Then he unholsters his gun and waits, scanning the rest of the room. His new position affords him a clear line of sight to both the entrance and his target. He’ll be able to react immediately if Ace enters.

Unless he decides to break in from a different direction. Or unless he’s already here.

Well, if that’s the case, Oikawa isn’t going to stand around and let Shiratorizawa get his guy. He takes aim at the target’s temple and pulls the trigger.

The bullet hits its mark, and the man crumples to the floor. Even with his silencer, the shot reverberates in the otherwise silent warehouse, and the target’s conversation partner reels back, alarmed. He braces himself to run, and Oikawa is about to take him out as well when he senses someone behind him.

On instinct, Oikawa ducks, rolling out of the way right before a throwing knife embeds itself in the pillar where his head had been half a second ago. The man takes advantage of the scuffle to dash to the entrance, and Oikawa can’t do anything about it because now all his concentration has to be on his assailant.

Oikawa’s field of vision narrows. His opponent is taller than he is, and broader, but not as fast. He wears a face covering and goggles like Oikawa’s own, but that doesn’t matter. This is Shiratorizawa’s premier; Oikawa knows it even before he throws a telltale punch with his left hand.

They exchange a flurry of blows and dodges. It’s like a dance, the way they swing at each other, neither of them managing to land a solid hit. One of Ace’s fists grazes Oikawa’s shoulder, and he pulls away with a low hiss. This is getting too close for comfort. If Iwaizumi was here, he’d warn Oikawa to get out fast, but Oikawa’s pride won’t allow it.

He can’t reach for any of his weapons because that would create an opening for his opponent. So he twists out of the way of an oncoming jab and aims his own punch at Ace’s ribs.

Before it can connect, Ace catches his wrist in midair with a gloved hand. He squeezes the bone so hard that Oikawa can feel it creak. Cursing, Oikawa tries to hit him with his other hand, but Ace grabs that one, too.

They’re both breathing hard, chests heaving. This close, Oikawa realizes how inhuman Ace looks, with his giant goggles and the black cloth covering his features. He wonders if he looks the same way to Ace. For the first time, Oikawa wonders who his opponent might be under the mask—where he lives or who his friends are or why they’re being made to fight each other over and over and over.

This is stupid. He doesn’t have time to be thinking these thoughts about an enemy combatant. Oikawa swings his body up and plants a foot square in Ace’s chest. He pushes off it into a backflip, wrenching his hands from Ace’s grip.

Oikawa lands hard on his knees. He wasn’t able to generate quite enough momentum for a clean flip. But he ignores the impact and the ache in his wrist and grabs a knife out of the sheath strapped to his thigh. He launches it at Ace.

The other man lifts an arm to shield his face, and the knife hits something on his wrist and clatters to the ground uselessly. Damnit. He must be wearing some sort of protective cuffs under that black bodysuit of his.

Still, the attack leaves Ace disoriented, and Oikawa takes advantage of the opening to make his exit. He wants to stay and fight, but Iwaizumi’s voice in his head reminds him that this is a bigger game than just tonight. The mission was to confirm Ace’s identity. They’ll meet again soon.

Oikawa sprints the few blocks back to the car and all but hurls himself into the driver’s seat. He starts it up as fast as possible and guns the engine, weaving through the dark city streets at speeds that probably aren’t legal on any highway in the world.

As soon as he’s far enough from the scene that he can be certain he wasn’t followed, he grabs the phone from the passenger side compartment and dials Iwaizumi’s number.

“It’s definitely him,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

Iwaizumi snorts. “You don’t sound too happy about that. What happened to thinking you could take him?”

Oikawa pouts. Iwaizumi can’t see it, but they’ve been working together for so long that he should be able to hear it in Oikawa’s voice. “I forgot how annoying he was,” he says. His wrist throbs.

Ace is distracting, and Oikawa hates being distracted on a mission. And in a close-quarters fight, it’s even more apparent that the bastard has improved, almost as much as Oikawa has. Maybe as much, if he’s being generous. Wherever it is that Shiratorizawa shipped him off to, whatever missions he’s been going on, they’ve certainly served their purpose. And it makes Oikawa _seethe._

But it also has his blood singing, electricity crackling down his spine. He’d almost forgotten what it could be like to feel this excited. This is what’s been missing. This is what he craves. A perfect equal, a foil, someone who he wins and loses to in equal, unpredictable measure.

He hangs up on Iwaizumi and feels his lips curve into a feral grin.

As soon as he gets home, Oikawa takes a shower, as if to cleanse himself of the grimy interior of the warehouse. There’s no blood to wash away, though there are shallow scrapes on his knees. It’s been a long time since anyone managed to catch him off-guard enough to draw blood.

Once he towels off, a flash of purple catches his eye in the mirror, and he realizes that he’s starting to bruise.

It’s his wrist. He can start to make out the pale imprint of fingers wrapped around it, left over from when Ace grabbed him. He’s lucky nothing’s broken, with how tight the grip had been, but it still discomfits him to see.

No one’s been able to touch Oikawa in the field for ages now, not since Shiratorizawa loosened its foothold in Japan. Maybe he’s grown too comfortable in his position at the top and is being made to pay for it now. He can only hope the kick he landed on the guy was hard enough to leave a mark of its own.

How strange, to wear another person’s marks on his skin. It must have been three—no, a little over two years ago that it last happened. A few months after Shiratorizawa disappeared but before Ushijima started growing distant, started leaving for weeks at a time on his business trips. Before the house became cold, back when Ushijima still mouthed love bites into the skin of his neck, still held his hips down hard enough to bruise—

But Oikawa doesn’t think about those times now. Doesn’t miss them.

Maybe the steam from his shower is starting to fog up his thoughts as well. He wraps the towel around his waist and leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh sorry this took so long. i wanted to post it earlier but before that i had to write another fight scene and i'm definitely not an action writer so it took awhile.

Oikawa doesn’t run into Ace again for days after that. He can tell that the other agent is still out there somewhere: there are a few missions where, when he arrives at the scene, he finds the target already dead. And other times when he senses someone else's presence right after he takes out the target and makes his escape.

But there are no more confrontations like the one they had that fateful night, and soon the bruises around his wrist start to fade. He stops having to tug his sleeve down to hide them whenever he's around Ushijima.

“Dinner is served,” Oikawa mutters, setting steaming plates of takeout on the table. The food is from a restaurant ten minutes away; they only eat homemade on the nights when it’s Ushijima’s turn to cook.

“Thank you, Tooru,” Ushijima says. At least he doesn’t complain about Oikawa’s repeated refusal to learn how to work anything more complicated than a microwave.

“Yeah,” Oikawa says, and he turns his attention to his own plate, nose scrunching when he realized he forgot to order the yakisoba without bean sprouts. He hates bean sprouts. With a sigh, he sets to work picking the disgusting things out with his chopsticks and piling them to one side.

Wordlessly, Ushijima holds out his own plate for Oikawa, who quickly scrapes the bean sprouts onto it. His heart warms a little at the gesture.

"How was your day?" Oikawa asks.

“It was good,” Ushijima says. He makes no move to elaborate.

Oikawa sighs. Getting Ushijima to hold a normal conversation was difficult even when they first met, but these days, it's like pulling teeth. Before, the silences between them were comfortable; now, they're anything but. As if the space between them is weighed down with all the words they’re not saying to each other. And maybe part of that is Oikawa’s fault, but at least he has an excuse.

He studies Ushijima carefully. It’s not hard, since he’s paying more attention to his dinner than to his husband. Oikawa watches the practiced blankness of his face, the intense focus that he directs to everything he does, even cutting tonkatsu. His knife movements are precise, methodical, and a small ripple of affection bubbles in Oikawa’s chest against his best efforts because it’s all so familiar. His eyes flick to Ushijima’s wrists, and—

And then he freezes.

“Wakatoshi?” he asks. “What happened to my watch?”

_ My watch.  _ It’s not his, but he refers to it as such because it was the first gift he gave to Ushijima, for their one-month anniversary. He hasn’t seen Ushijima without it since then, and its constant presence always served as something of a reminder.

A reminder of what, Oikawa isn’t sure. That Ushijima still cares for him, maybe, despite everything. That they’re going to make it someday.

And now it’s gone.

Ushijima has the audacity to look surprised, glancing down at his bare wrist. Then his eyes slide up to meet Oikawa’s, and there’s a hint of guilt in their depths.

_ Good,  _ Oikawa thinks. He should feel guilty.

“I lost it,” Ushijima says. “I apologize.”

Oikawa swallows, sets his chopsticks down gently. “You lost it. Five years, and—and you decide to  _ lose  _ it.”

“These things happen,” Ushijima says.

“Bullshit _ ,”  _ Oikawa snaps. “You’re the most boring man I’ve ever met. You keep track of everything, you follow the same routine every morning and night. I’ve never seen you lose anything in your fucking life, and  _ now  _ you decide to get careless?”

“I’m sorry,” Ushijima says. “Tooru…”

“Stop with the Tooru!” Oikawa is shouting now, but he can’t help it. “If you’ve finally decided to give up on me you could have just said—!”

“Tooru, calm down!” Oikawa clamps his mouth shut. Ushijima’s never raised his voice before that he can remember.

“It was an accident,” Ushijima says, softer.

“An accident.” Oikawa closes his eyes, exhales, and lets years of pent-up bitterness rise to the surface. “I guess that’s all this relationship ever was.”

Ushijima flinches like he’s been shot. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. We—this was doomed from the start. We shouldn’t have met. We shouldn’t have gotten married— _ married,  _ after six months, who even does that?”

Food long forgotten, Ushijima reaches a placating hand palm-up over the table. Oikawa doesn’t take it. “Tooru, please, I never meant to—”

“Shut up. Just—shut up.” To his horror, Oikawa’s eyes start to sting. He doesn’t know why this minute detail stands out so much, doesn’t know why a fucking watch of all things is the breaking point, but it’s been a long time coming. “We’ve been unhappy together almost as long as we’ve been happy. So maybe—” He chokes on the last few words.

Ushijima has gone deathly still across the table. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t do this anymore,” Oikawa says. He takes a deep breath. “I’m going out to get some air. Don’t follow me.”

He rises from his seat and manages to make it out of the house despite the ringing in his ears and the shaking in his hands. It’s only when he’s out on the sidewalk, alone under the stars, that he realizes he forgot to bring a coat.

But he can still make out Ushijima’s shape behind the curtains; no way he lets himself go back now. So he wraps his arms around himself, picks a random direction, and starts walking. He lets himself get lost in the rhythmic thud of his footsteps on the pavement.

It’s so stupid.  _ He’s  _ so stupid. He’s known that their marriage was failing for a while now. He was even joking about it just a few days ago, so why is it hitting him so hard now?

Maybe it’s because the evidence is staring him right in the face. The awkward silences and general lack of passion had happened gradually, so that he was able to adapt to them step by step. They’d even moved into separate bedrooms that way: Oikawa kept leaving his things in the guest room instead of the master bedroom until he realized that it was easier to move in.

But the watch-shaped tan line on Ushijima’s skin is so sudden and so obvious, like a shock of cold water dumped over him.

“It’s finally over,” Oikawa says out loud. As much as he tries to convince himself to sound relieved, thankful even, it comes out disbelieving and sad.

_ It’s over, it’s over, it’s over. _

Ushijima has been a part of his life for so long that he’s forgotten what it’s like to be without him. Had there really been a time when Oikawa lived and worked alone, with only his agency at his back, jumping from country to country without a second thought? He hasn’t left Japan since Beijing, not even to accompany Ushijima on his work trips. Not that Ushijima ever asked him to.

And ever since Ushijima’s promotion, when he stopped leaving so often, Oikawa has been wondering whether it’s the best opportunity he’ll get to rekindle their relationship. More time to be together, to fall back into that old, well-loved dynamic. But instead… 

_ It’s over. _

Tears pull at Oikawa’s eyes again, and he grits his teeth against them. He’s not going to cry out here on the street in the middle of all these picture-perfect suburban homes. That would be even more pathetic than he already feels.

“Excuse me.”

Oikawa pulls to a halt milliseconds away from slamming into the person in front of him. He blinks in surprise, having been dragged out of his cocoon of self-pity and into the real world, and he’s about to open his mouth to make some scathing remark when he realizes who it is he’s almost run into.

It’s Sawamura Daichi and his dog, a border collie named Aki.

“Oikawa?” Sawamura asks. “What are you doing here?”

He smooths a blank, cheery smile into place. It’s probably too late; Sawamura caught him by surprise, and he might have picked on Oikawa’s turbulent emotional state when they first ran into each other. Still: “Dai-chan! So nice to see you. I hope you and Refreshing-kun enjoyed the bread."

Thinking about the bread makes him think about Ushijima and his stupid baking skills, so maybe it wasn’t the best idea to bring that up. His smile flickers.

“Uh, yeah, thanks for that.” Sawamura asks. “Are you all right? You seem a little… distracted.”

“Oh, really? Huh. I’m actually fine. And I should really be taking my leave.”

As he moves to step past dog and owner, Sawamura shifts to block his path. Immediately, Oikawa is on high alert, mind going to the three knives he carries on himself at all times.

But all Sawamura says is, “I don’t think it’s safe for you to wander by yourself this late. I hope this isn’t too weird of me, but if you need a place to stay, our house is open.”

Oikawa stares at him. “You’re out here by yourself, too,” he points out.

Sawamura leans down to pat the top of Aki’s head. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, and she barks happily. “I’ve got my girl with me,” Sawamura says. He stands back up and offers Oikawa a sheepish half-smile and a shrug. “I mean it. Suga’s making hot chocolate, and we’re willing to help if you need it.”

“I—” Oikawa cuts himself off before he can refuse. It’s cold, and he doesn’t know how long he can stay out here before Ushijima comes searching for him. He smirks. “I guess if you’re so desperate for me to grace you with your presence, I will.”

Sawamura rolls his eyes. “I already regret this.”

But he leads Oikawa back to his and Sugawara’s house. “Sorry, girl,” he says when they arrive, scratching Aki’s chin as he unfastens her leash. “I’ll take you out on a longer walk tomorrow to make up for it.”

As he slips off his shoes in the genkan, Oikawa is assaulted with the smell of chocolate and hazelnut. Sugawara, sure enough, is in the kitchen, stirring a pot of hot chocolate. Their home is decorated with comfort in mind, throw pillows and plush rugs everywhere. It’s less formal than their stuffy dining room, or maybe Oikawa just feels more welcome here today.

Sugawara looks up from the hot chocolate. His eyebrows raise when he catches sight of Oikawa. “Oh? I didn’t know we were taking in strays, Daichi.”

Oikawa opens his mouth, affronted, but Sugawara cuts him off.

“Kidding, kidding! I was still a little mad at you for that dinner, but we’re even now. So what brings you here?”

Deciding that he has bigger problems to worry about than one minor insult, Oikawa takes a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. Sawamura follows suit.

“Nice house you’ve got here,” Oikawa says.

“Thank you,” Sugawara says. “But you’re not subtle. Stop deflecting.” He ladles the hot chocolate into two mugs set aside for the purpose, and then he grabs another one out of a cupboard and fills that one up, too. By the time he distributes the mugs between the three of them, Oikawa still hasn’t said a word. Sugawara softens. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

He walks around the island, pressing a gentle kiss to Sawamura’s cheek as he goes. Sawamura smiles up at him and wraps an arm around his waist in a brief hug before letting him take his seat. Oikawa’s heart aches.

He clears his throat. “How do you guys do it?” he asks as soon as Sugawara is settled.

They look surprised, glancing at each other and then back at him. “What do you mean?” Sawamura asks.

“You know. The whole marriage, domestic bliss bullshit.”

Sawamura and Sugawara exchange another  _ look,  _ and Oikawa really wishes they would stop. He’s sitting right here.

“It’s not always bliss,” Sugawara says. “We have arguments like everyone else. But you have to be honest and respect each other enough to work through it.”

Oikawa chokes out a bitter laugh, takes a sip of his cocoa to hide the downward pull of his lips. “I don’t even know why he married me.”

“It’s okay if things don’t work out,” Sawamura says. “Sometimes they don’t.”

Oikawa stiffens, and Sugawara reaches over and smacks his husband on the shoulder, eliciting a small wince from Sawamura. Oikawa can empathize. For a civilian, Sugawara has a mean right hook.

“Sometimes they don’t, yeah. But often they do,” Sugawara says, “if you’re willing to talk to him.”

Oikawa says nothing, staring into his cup like he’ll find the answers to the universe and all his marital problems in there.

“Look,” Sugawara says. “If you’re miserable, and he makes you miserable, and you don’t see a way to fix things, then end it.” Oikawa raises an eyebrow at the finality in his voice. “Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Oikawa says. He thinks about it. “But not that.”

“Good. Now forget about what Ushijima thinks. Why did  _ you  _ marry  _ him? _ ”

And that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? Oikawa can’t make his feelings go back in time, but he remembers the early stages of their relationship well. All the adoration and excitement of young love. He’s long forgotten what it’s like to be challenged, pushed to the limit. They were an unstoppable force and an immovable object, and it had been intoxicating to be loved by someone so determined to love him. “He made me feel alive. Like I could do anything.”

“And now?”

“And now it feels like he’s not even there. Like he always wants to be somewhere else when he’s with me.”

“Mmh. You’re not communicating,” Sugawara says.

Oikawa scowls at him. “Oh, really. I hadn’t noticed.”

Sugawara rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a dick. We’re trying to help.”

“You’ve gotta take the first step,” Sawamura says. “Be the one to talk to him first.”

“I  _ do,  _ I ask him questions, but he never responds.”

“Not that. Don’t try to pry information from him. Share about yourself. If you take the plunge and you’re honest with him, maybe he’ll do the same.”

_ Fat chance,  _ Oikawa thinks, but he nods. “I’ll consider it.”

“You’d better,” Sugawara says. “We didn’t let you in our house and make you hot cocoa for you to ignore all our advice like a little bitch. It’s good advice.”

_ “Koushi,”  _ Sawamura says, exasperated but fond. Sugawara sends a cheeky grin in his direction.

“Gross,” Oikawa mutters. He’s only half jealous.

“Let’s kick him out, Daichi.”

“Tempting, but no.”

Sugawara heaves a put-upon sigh. “Fine. Look, Oikawa, you may be a pain in the ass—”

“Hey!”

“—but you’re still our neighbor. And I don’t know if you’re ready to go back there and face Ushijima, so you’re welcome to stay the night. If you want.”

“Oh,” Oikawa says. “Ah, sure. That sounds good.”

Sugawara sets his mug down on a colorful paisley coaster and stands, stretching his arms above his head. “All right. I’ll show you to the guest room, then. We should have pajamas and a toothbrush for you somewhere. Come on.”

Oikawa stands as well. He clears his throat.

“Um—thank you, Refreshing-kun. And Dai-chan. Really, it—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sugawara says. “No need to strain yourself trying to be nice. We get it.”

“Suga!” Daichi says, but he’s laughing, and Oikawa is slightly happier as he heads upstairs.

* * *

Smarter people would have waited longer to get married, but it had been six months, and Oikawa was head over heels in love. (And no matter how dissatisfied he is with his marriage in the present, he can’t deny that he loved Ushijima then.) Ushijima must have felt the same, because they were married within a year of their first meeting, to Iwaizumi’s vocal disapproval.

They met on a cruise ship, of all things: a two-week trip up the Yangtze River. Oikawa was there to kill the captain, who owed his client half a million dollars in gambling debt, and he figured he might as well enjoy the cruise first. No sense in ruining the experience for the passengers who’d already paid, after all. Ushijima was there at the behest of his boss, who’d grown concerned that he was working too much overtime at the company.

The mission was supposed to be stress-free. Two weeks of relaxation on a luxury liner and then a bullet to the head. Simple as that.

It hadn’t gone that way. Oikawa was lounging in one of the private bars, keeping to himself, scoping out the scene and toying with the idea of inviting someone up to his room that night.

And then he noticed a woman entering the room. She was wearing a metallic silver pantsuit, of all things, which was why she caught Oikawa’s eye, and Oikawa paled when he realized who it was.

Haiba Alisa, an influential model and the executive of a wealthy makeup brand, who happened to be the widow of one of his most recent targets. Oikawa had lingered a touch too long in the man’s office—he owned an impressive collection of wood stamps, and Oikawa got distracted—and was forced to rush his exit right as the woman entered. He wasn’t sure if she got a good look at his face or if she held a personal grudge, but she was powerful enough to track him down and ruin his life if she chose.

Oikawa had to hide. Downing the last of his whiskey, he spun in his chair to face the guy sitting next to him. He was attractive: tall, with a strong jaw and intense eyes and broad shoulders. Although in that moment, Oikawa would have taken anyone.

Oikawa grabbed his arm. “Make out with me,” he hissed because no one ever wants to stare too hard at that one handsy couple at the bar. “My ex just walked in.”

The man looked at Oikawa, then at Alisa. He tilted his head, betraying his skepticism. “ _ She’s _ your ex?”

Oikawa didn’t have time for this. He grabbed the man’s collar and yanked him down, crushing their lips together.

And, okay, Oikawa had kissed a lot of people, for business or pleasure and everything in between. But this stranger shot up into the top ten list—no, top five at least—right then and there.

Once he overcame his initial confusion, he started moving his mouth against Oikawa’s, tongue darting out to lick at the seam of Oikawa’s lips.

Oikawa obliged, parting his lips and slinging his arms around the man’s neck. The stranger groaned in response, hands settling on either side of Oikawa’s hips. They were big, the heat of his skin seeping through Oikawa’s dress shirt.

They kissed for at least a minute, lazy and deep and sweet, until the bartender cleared her throat and they parted, flushed. Oikawa was more than a little flustered, rendered breathless by the man’s intensity.

He recovered soon enough, though. “Not bad,” he teased. He kept his arms where they were, locking their faces closer together than was decent.

“I believe she’s gone,” the man said.

Oikawa had forgotten about the model. He grinned, sharklike, and leaned in. “Maybe,” he said, “but to be safe, we should get out of here. What do you say?”

“That seems wise.”

Oikawa unclasped his hands and slid them down the muscled slope of the man’s chest. “Let’s see if you can keep up with me, then.”

Something sparked in the man’s eyes, something that had Oikawa shivering.

“My name is Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

“Oikawa Tooru.” He didn’t often give out his real name, but this seemed harmless enough. (To this day, he doesn’t know if he regrets that decision.) “My pleasure.”

“It will be,” Ushijima said, eyes dark, and Oikawa laughed and led him out of the bar.

As it turned out, Ushijima could keep up with him fine. The next morning, Oikawa woke up in a suite that was not his own and found Ushijima already up, standing in front of a pair of gauzy curtains overlooking the water, wrapped in a fluffy white robe.

There was a week left of the trip, and Oikawa decided that it might be all right to stay and indulge awhile. So he climbed out of bed and stepped over to the window. When Ushijima faced him to say hello, he pulled him down into a good morning kiss.

The actual murder was as easy as Oikawa expected it to be. The feelings he developed along the way were much, much harder to deal with. Against his better judgement and Iwaizumi’s warnings, he gave Ushijima his personal number after learning that they both lived in the Tokyo area.

Ushijima called him the day after they disembarked from the ship, asking to arrange a meet-up, and Oikawa agreed.

Six months later, they were married. Three years later there was Beijing, and Ushijima’s business trips started like clockwork once or twice a month, and Oikawa learned to drown himself in work to ease the gnawing loneliness that came with solitude. Funny how these things work out.

* * *

It’s not the familiar blaring of his alarm that wakes Oikawa up the next morning. When he opens his eyes, bright sunlight streams in in from a different direction than he’s used to, and a vibration is coming from the burner phone in the harness strapped to his thigh. He grumbles, rolls over, and accepts the call.

“‘Lo? Iwa-chan?”

“Oikawa.” Iwaizumi’s voice comes through the receiver deadly serious, and Oikawa’s drowsiness is replaced with alertness. “Kunimi managed to hack into part of the Shiratorizawa database. He’s working on decoding the more sensitive files, but we know that Ace has a hit tonight. Six p.m.”

Oikawa is already out of bed, picking his clothes up off the chair he’d thrown them over last night and scrambling to put them on. He’ll have to go back home and get his things. He checks his phone again: ten-thirty. Sugawara shouldn’t have let him sleep in so late, but this way he has a greater chance of avoiding Ushijima, who’s probably at work by now.

As he emerges into the hallway, he’s still fumbling with the last few buttons of his shirt. The smell of fried dough wafts up from the kitchen downstairs. Sugawara and Sawamura must still be having breakfast. Oikawa’s stomach rumbles, but he doesn’t have time. He has to go home and shower and change and drive over to King Consulting to be briefed on the details of the hit and research the location and pick out his gear and—

“Thanks for the hospitality, Refreshing-kun!” Oikawa shouts on his way out the door. “Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone!”

Sugawara starts to rise from his seat, a confused look on his face. “Oikawa, what in the world?”

But he’s no longer there.

Ushijima, as expected, is not home, so Oikawa is free to head to the bathroom without interruption. He showers fast and dresses faster. He’s in and out of the house in a handful of minutes, hopping into his Aston Martin and sending up a spray of gravel as he backs out of the driveway.

Iwaizumi, Kunimi, and the rest of the team are waiting for him when he arrives at headquarters. Some of them look like they’ve been working for awhile. Kunimi, in particular, has dark blue bags under his eyes and looks sleepier than usual.

“Are you drinking coffee out of a bowl?” Oikawa asks him.

Kunimi shrugs and takes a sip. “Holds more.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all morning,” Iwaizumi says. “Where the hell did you go last night?”

“Personal problems,” he says, and waves Iwaizumi off when he opens his mouth to probe further. “Don’t worry about it. This is more important. Lead the way.”

Iwaizumi snaps his mouth shut and nods. There’s a look in his eye that means he’s going to try and weasel it out of Oikawa later, but for now he stays silent and takes them into the basement.

They stop in front of the main computer, a giant screen almost as tall as the room it’s contained in. Kunimi types something into the touchpad keyboard. A set of coordinates appears on the screen.

“Here,” Iwaizumi says. “This is where you’re meeting him tonight.”

Kunimi zooms in, and Oikawa frowns when he realizes that the coordinates point to a restaurant. A fancy one, at that, which means a lot of expensive plates are going to be shattered tonight. He hates solo missions in places where there are too many people. Every one of those extra bodies is a variable he can’t account for.

“Who’s the target?” Oikawa asks.

“Man named Daishou Suguru. Soon-to-be CEO of an international firearms company known for war profiteering, on a work trip in Tokyo. But he’s not the main focus.”

“Right.” Part of Oikawa balks at the thought of letting a target slip away, but a larger part of him wants to put Ace in his place once and for all. “What are the directives?”

“Subdue if possible, kill if necessary, and get out if it looks like things are going south. We all remember what went down the last time Shiratorizawa was active in Tokyo. No one wants a repeat of that.”

Around him, everyone’s faces are grim.

“Got it.” Oikawa claps. “Do we get to the fun part now?”

Iwaizumi huffs as if annoyed, but he can’t quite hide his smile. “Sure. Watari?”

The resident tech expert of Aoba Johsai outfits Oikawa with his gear for the rendezvous with Ace tonight: a new gun with a hair-trigger, a suit jacket with customized interior pockets fitted with knives, and an upgraded earpiece.

Once he’s finished arming himself and complimenting Watari on his skill until he starts to blush, Oikawa notices Iwaizumi motioning to him again. He heads back over.

“Don’t be so obsessed with me, Iwa-chan. You’re acting like a mother hen.”

Iwaizumi is uncharacteristically silent and still, without even a punch or a threat of violence. Oikawa sobers up as well.

“Stay safe,” Iwaizumi says. “You’re not just an asset to us, you know. We care about you.”

Oikawa knows that to mean  _ I care about you,  _ and he’s touched. But this is no time for sentimentality. Besides, he’s coming back. He’ll make sure of it.

“Aww, Iwa-chan really does care,” he says. “I knew it.”

“Shut up. If there’s one person in the game who has the skills to take you out—”

“It’s Ace. I know.”

“Be careful.”

“I will. Geez, you really do sound like a worried mom.”

This time, the punch comes, and Oikawa dances away from it, laughing. “Okay, okay. I get it. Thanks for worrying.”

Iwaizumi crosses his arms. “Yeah, whatever.”

Before Oikawa can say something that will either ruin the mood or make it more awkward, Yahaba appears at his elbow and drags him away to be briefed on the location. He gets a crash course on the restaurant’s floorplan and the placement of every exit and fire extinguisher in the place.

By the time six rolls around, he’s as prepared as he’ll ever be.

A hand on his gun, he exits the car and examines the restaurant’s design. There could hardly be a worse place for a hit. The walls contain so many floor-to-ceiling windows that the diners inside are visible from where he stands, and Oikawa has his doubts about the ability of the glass to survive a gunshot. Shiratorizawa really knows how to pick them.

Since no one is a hundred percent certain what’s going to happen tonight, Watari has instructions to keep the car running by the curb in case Oikawa needs a getaway driver. After sending a final reassuring smile his way, Oikawa takes a deep breath and heads into the restaurant.

He manages to charm the hostess into taking him to a table on the third floor, the same one the target is dining on. He’s brought to a small corner table that gives him a clear view of the CEO. Even if he weren’t sitting in the middle of the room, right under a gleaming crystal chandelier, he would be recognizable, with his gaudy jewelry and reptilian features.

A waiter comes by, and Oikawa orders a drink that he has no intention of touching, too distracted wondering what Shiratorizawa’s play will be to focus on the menu. He expected them to make their move fifteen minutes ago.

A few more minutes pass with no sign. “Moving to Plan B,” he mutters into his comm. Plan A was to engage with Ace directly as soon as he showed up. Plan B is to make the first move, take the target hostage, and use him to lure Ace to a secondary location.

Oikawa stands, drawing the attention of several diners around him. He takes one step toward the target’s table.

And then the chandelier explodes.

* * *

Oikawa reacts on instinct, shielding his face with his forearm. He hears screams and the sound of shattering glass. As the patrons stampede for the stairwell, he rolls under a table, mind racing.

The target appears to be in shock, having taken the brunt of the explosion. He’s bleeding from several places where the broken glass cut his skin. But the bomb in the chandelier wasn’t meant to do fatal damage. It was supposed to be a diversion to get all the guests out of the restaurant before Ace entered.

Oikawa’s lip curls. Really, does Shiratorizawa have no finesse? He would have used knockout gas or maybe gotten Kunimi to hack the sprinkler system. No, scratch that. He would have picked a better location for the hit in the first place.

He grabs a mask and a hood out of the pouch clasped to his belt and puts them on to conceal his identity from Shiratorizawa. The mask is a new invention of Watari’s. Consisting of durable layers of kevlar, it’ll offer him some extra protection in the field. Oikawa watches with bated breath as several bodyguards poised around the perimeter of the room rush to the target’s aid. They help him struggle to his feet and start to lead him to the exit. But then there’s the sound of a gunshot, and one of the guards drops Daishou to clutch at her own leg.

Ace arrives on the scene, taking out the bodyguards with a series of graceful maneuvers. He grabs the target and presses a cloth to her face. She slumps in his grasp, and he throws her over his shoulder, turning to leave.

That’s Oikawa’s cue. Sneaking out from under the table, he whips out his gun and aims it at Ace, but he hesitates. It feels cheap, after the series of cat-and-mouse games their rivalry was built on, to shoot him in the back and walk away. It’s like he’s cheating somehow, like Ace deserves better from him.

That brief hesitation is all Ace needs to realize something’s wrong. He tosses the target to the side before diving behind a support beam. He catches sight of Oikawa and unholsters his own gun.

Oikawa curses. He should’ve just taken the shot.

Instead, he points the barrel of his gun at Ace’s head and fires. The hair trigger is fast, but it’s not fast enough. He misses by half an inch when Ace ducks behind the beam again.

He reemerges from the other side of the beam and fires three shots at Oikawa in quick succession. Oikawa dodges as best he can, wincing when one grazes the top of his head.

He grabs the table behind him and flips it over. Plates and glasses crash to the ground, but he ignores them. He holds the table in front of his body like a shield. If he can get close enough to draw Ace into close-combat instead of a shootout, Oikawa might have a better chance.

He dashes around the room toward the support beam, firing blindly in Ace’s direction. Bullets thud into walls and into the table, but none of them find their mark. Oikawa runs out of ammunition and, with no time to reload, throws the handgun aside. By then he’s close enough that he doesn’t need it. He heaves the table at Ace. It catches him off-guard, colliding with his shoulder and knocking him back. Ace grunts, staggering slightly, but he won’t let himself be taken down.

They fight. Ace is as aggressive as always. He takes the offensive, pummeling at Oikawa from all sides, forcing him to retreat. Oikawa bides his time. He blocks the blows that he can and lets others glance off him. He watches Ace’s right side closely for an opening. Eventually he’ll get impatient, sloppy, and then—

Ace overbalances himself trying to aim a particularly forceful swing, and Oikawa jabs his fist into his unguarded ribs. He tries to use the momentum to land another hit, but Ace recovers and kicks his ankle. Oikawa loses balance and stumbles backward, and Ace shoves him into the wall, pinning both his wrists against it with a triumphant noise.

Oikawa blanches, surprised by the intimate position. They’re both panting, but Oikawa catches his breath first. “Sorry, honey,” he says. “I appreciate the interest, but I’m happily married.”

Ace’s grip on his wrists slacken, and he flinches hard, head rearing back. Oikawa brings his leg up in a roundhouse kick to Ace’s side. The force propels Ace into a couple of chairs, and he lands in a tangled heap.

Oikawa fights back a feral smile. “Well, maybe not happily,” he muses. “But the point stands.”

Ace makes no attempt to get up. Oikawa frowns at him, even though his features are obscured by fabric. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Tooru,” Ace says, and Oikawa freezes.

_ No. _

_ No no no no no no no no no. _

This can’t be happening, Oikawa thinks, numb as Ace reaches up and peels off his mask. Ushijima’s face is as blank as ever, but a muscle in his jaw jumps, and Oikawa knows he’s conflicted. With unsteady hands, Oikawa reaches up and removes his own mask. He doesn’t know what emotions are written all over his face right now, but Ushijima must pick up on them because he lowers his eyes.

Oikawa would laugh if he weren’t so distraught. Half-hysterical, he realizes that that was the first time he’d ever talked to Ace in the field. “You—you—”

All the words he knows are jumbled up in his throat. This is insane. This is lunacy. That his husband, who he’s lived with for five years, who he knows, who he loved, has been leading the same double life he was? They’ve been telling each other the same lies, dancing around each other in the field without once realizing that they sleep in the same house at night.

Oikawa grabs a knife from his suit jacket and throws it at his husband. It embeds itself in the wood right beside Ushijima’s face.

“So, what?” he hisses, advancing. “I was just some kind of cover? For  _ five years?” _

“Of course not,” Ushijima says. He stays seated in the heap of furniture, watching Oikawa warily.

“I sure fucking feel like one,” Oikawa says. “You lied to me.”

_ “You  _ lied to  _ me,”  _ Ushijima points out, but Oikawa won’t be appeased.

He stalks forward, slipping another knife out of the inner lining of his jacket. “I should have gotten a divorce,” he snarls, and starts to aim it for Ushijima’s dumb head, but then Ushijima kicks out and sweeps Oikawa’s legs out from under him. He lands gracelessly on his ass, knife skidding out of his hand and across the parquet floors. It’s enough time for Ushijima to clamber to his feet, and then the fight begins again in earnest.

“All those business trips?” Oikawa asks, parrying a blow intended for his jugular.

“Shiratorizawa hits,” Ushijima confirms. He tries his sweeping kick again, but Oikawa is prepared for it and jumps out of the way.

Oikawa grabs two more knives and flings them at Ushijima in quick succession. Ushijima dodges. “You’re not a consultant,” he says.

“And you’re not a stockbroker,” Oikawa retorts. He tears a nearby tablecloth off its table, throwing it and all the accumulated dishes and cutlery at Ushijima, who bats it away and chases after Oikawa, unfazed.

“Tendou?” He kicks a chair at Ushijima.

“My handler.” Ushijima grabs the chair and launches it at Oikawa’s head. “Iwaizumi?”

Oikawa ducks. “Childhood friend.” At Ushijima’s frown, he smirks, pushing one table into another to block his path. “And also Seijoh’s director.”

“The cruise we met on,” Ushijima says, hoisting himself over the tables, “I was there to blackmail a Guoanbu official.”

Oikawa darts around a pillar, Ushijima hot on his heels. “I was the one who killed the captain.”

Apparently frustrated with the chase, Ushijima lunges. He grabs onto Oikawa’s torso and sends them both crashing to the floor, Oikawa’s body pinned underneath Ushijima.

“Did you really lose my watch?” Oikawa asks, heart pounding. This close, he can see the flecks of green in those sharp gold eyes.

Ushijima gives him a barely-there smile. “You broke it when we fought. I was getting it fixed,” he says.

Oikawa huffs a laugh and promptly knees Ushijima in the groin.

While Ushijima doubles over in pain, Oikawa climbs to his feet. His eyes land on his gun, a few feet away, and he runs over. His hands tremble as he reloads the it. He prays that Ushijima is still incapacitated, but it’s no use. When he turns around, gun in hand, Ushijima already has his own pointed squarely at Oikawa’s heart.

They’re at a standoff, each eyeing the other, neither willing to shoot first.

Oikawa’s comm crackles to life. “Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, a note of urgency in his voice. “Kunimi got into the database. Ace is actually—”

“My husband, I know,” Oikawa says. He watches Ushijima’s face for a reaction, but there isn’t one. “I could have used that intel thirty minutes ago, but thanks.”

“Are you hurt? Do you need us to send in the extraction team?”

“Nah. Wish me luck, okay, Iwa-chan? I’ll talk to you later.”

“What—Oikawa? Oikawa, don’t be stupid, what are you—” Oikawa takes the comm out of his ear, snaps it in half with one hand, and tosses the pieces somewhere to the side. Ushijima cocks his head in confusion but likewise removes his own.

All of a sudden, Oikawa develops a painful awareness of his ragged breathing, the too-fast beating of his heart. It’s the adrenaline, he tells himself, but staring down the barrel of a gun at the man he once loved, he doesn’t fully believe it.

“Any last words?” Oikawa says. His finger is poised right above the trigger, ready to fire at the slightest touch. “Maybe you want to nag me one more time before you go?”

Ushijima studies him for a second, or maybe a year. Then: “I must be dreaming,” he says.

Oikawa blinks. “What?”

“That’s what I thought,” Ushijima says, “when I first saw you at that bar. I thought you were so beautiful that I had to be dreaming.”

Oikawa’s hand starts to shake. “Shut the fuck up.”

Achingly slow, Ushijima bends down and drops his gun. It falls to the floor with a resounding finality, and when Ushijima straightens, he does it with his hands above his head.

“Stop that,” Oikawa says through clenched teeth. “Are you too much of a coward to fight me properly? Pick it up.”

“I won’t kill you,” Ushijima says. His voice and countenance are calm. Oikawa wishes he would cry or scream or insult him. Anything but this careful blankness.

“So you’re just going to lay down and die like a dog?” Oikawa asks. He takes his finger off the trigger completely. His hands are shaking so violently that he’s scared the gun might go off on accident. He grips the cold metal so hard his knuckles whiten. “I thought Shiratorizawa operatives were supposed to be better than that.”

The vacant mask finally cracks. It breaks into a small, hopeless smile, as bright and raw as the moon in water. “I think,” Ushijima says, “that being your husband is more important to me, Tooru.”

To Oikawa’s horror, his vision starts to blur at the edges. For the first time in years, his name sounds right, even reverent, coming from his husband’s lips. It’s so cruel of fate that it has to happen when they’re like this. “I hate you,” Oikawa whispers. “I hate you so much.”

“I’m sorry,” Ushijima says, and that’s the breaking point.

Stupid, dumb, caring Ushiwaka. Stupid Ushiwaka and his stupid, lovable face. Oikawa’s gun drops from slack fingers, and in the next second, Ushijima has crossed the floor to him and is holding him tight. Oikawa squeezes his eyes shut, the first tears of many leaking out, and he clutches at Ushijima’s suit jacket. Ushijima’s lips find his own. The kiss tastes like salt and home and something found, and Oikawa is flying.

Two years ago, en route to Beijing, Oikawa’s plane had been hijacked by suicide bombers sent by his target. The pilot was shot, the plane was sent into a downward spiral, and Oikawa had no time to think before he was diving out the emergency hatch. He plummeted ten thousand feet in total freefall before activating the parachute in time to stave off the worst of his injuries upon landing.

Kissing Ushijima reminds him of that. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, and Oikawa’s stomach drops and his legs threaten to collapse. All he can do is let go and fall down, down, down, and hope someone’s there to catch him at the end.

Oikawa winds his arms around Ushijima’s neck, and Ushijima’s hands wander down to Oikawa’s waist. Their bodies crush together like opposite magnetic poles. Oikawa shudders when Ushijima licks into his mouth.

They kiss like drowning men, like the dams that have been suppressing their feelings for each other have all broken. Their chests are so close that Ushijima’s heart beats in tandem with Oikawa’s: a call and an answer.

This is what’s been missing for the past two years of marriage. This thrill, this hot blood coursing through him, this cold fire that erupts on his skin at Ushijima’s touch. Oikawa doubts they’ll ever drink their fill of each other; they have a lot of time to make up for.

But they’re running out of air, so Oikawa pulls away, presses their foreheads together. Ushijima’s breath fans over his lips.

“I missed you,” Oikawa confesses.

“I missed you, too.”

“Say my name.”

“Tooru.”

“Again.”

“Tooru.”

Oikawa’s eyes start to sting. He doesn’t want to cry in front of his husband again, but it’s hard when Ushijima sounds as awed as Oikawa feels, like he can’t believe how lucky he is. Closing his eyes and willing the tears away, Oikawa brings their mouths together in one more slow, chaste kiss.

There are reports to write and best friends to fill in and targets to bring in, but for now… “Take me home, Wakatoshi?” Oikawa asks.

Ushijima bundles Oikawa into his arms, bridal style, like it’s nothing. He kisses Oikawa’s forehead once. “Of course,” he says.

Warmth spreads through Oikawa’s body, and he lets himself call it love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u may have noticed a few loose ends, and that's because i'm probably going to expand this into a series sometime in the future.
> 
> thank you for tuning in!! this may be one of my favorite aus i’ve written so i hope you guys enjoyed. comments and kudos are appreciated as always <3

**Author's Note:**

> is pining for someone you're already married to a trope bc that's my shit
> 
> kudos & comments are very much appreciated <3


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